


Eyes on Fire

by sarahgene12



Category: Mumford & Sons (Band), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Blowjobs, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 17:39:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8111413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahgene12/pseuds/sarahgene12
Summary: Concerts are fun, and it's always polite to show your appreciation afterwards.





	

Christ his hands were trembling.

He'd given the man at the door his name, not expecting it to get him anywhere; it didn't. The security guard, a burly fellow nearly six inches taller than he, showed no greater reaction to his pronouncement than if he'd observed the color of the sky aloud.

He felt like a grand idiot standing in the grass, beside a bin overflowing with reeking popcorn boxes and empty booze bottles. The grandeur of the stage and all the lights was tremendously less glamorous from back here. Here it was all wires and pulleys, switches and sawdust. More bottles littered the gap between the curtains.

The hulking, bald, and extremely sweaty guard disappeared behind the grey metal door, and it rattled in its hinges behind him. Trembling still, and sweating for more reasons than the sinfully hot sun, he leaned helplessly against the bin, cursing his wildly beating heart.

He shouldn't have been like this. He was a grown, intelligent man, for fuck's sake, he shouldn't be shaking so, shouldn't have to be reminding himself to breathe.

Though the guard hadn't known him, fellow members of the audience had; he'd been recognized almost immediately by a group of teenaged girls behind him, before the show had even started.

He was a fairly tall man, just over six foot, almost painfully thin but also in quite astounding physical shape; a costar once had commented that it was like he kept his muscles hidden away within his otherwise rawboned figure. It made him look taller than he really was, and his accentuated high English cheekbones gave him an appealingly chiseled look. He wore his hair in bouncing curls, and for once in a long while they were their natural color, somewhere on the color spectrum between shining gold and carrot-orange. His eyes were an inconstant spectrum of blues and greens, gilded too like a pirate's treasure of legend.

He had obliged the girls in their requests for photos and autographs, somewhat begrudgingly but always politely and sincerely. Half an hour later, everyone's attention was turned to the four gentlemen upon the stage.

It was better than anything. It was better than that first cup of coffee on a cold morning, better than the first minute or two right after sex, when you're both still sweating and struggling for breath and sharing the heat of two bodies and you have no idea where your clothes have ended up. It was exhilarating, and it gave his heart and soul new energy. At the end of it all he was full of life and felt as though he could take on the world, run a marathon, or fight a bull. He was just so jazzed.

He stood nearly a head above most of the crowd, and so was at a perfect vantage point to see the very last band of the night. He knew them of course; most everyone here was mouthing every single word to every single song, even vocalizing along to the banjo. He didn't know the words but he felt the music just as deeply, screamed out with as just as much abandon as everyone else.

Once or twice he swore he felt a fierce and deliberate gaze on just him. Once, towards the end of the set, when the band had come back out for an encore, he knew it for sure.

The young man, drunk on music and whiskey, caught his eye out of the hundreds gathered screaming and flailing about; he wielded his guitar like a partner in a frenzied dance and howled into the microphone with a voice like a great lion's, and he was pouring sweat and his face was screwed up into an expression somewhere between ecstasy and agony. His boots beat the stage hard enough to rattle the speakers, hard enough to make the drums seem insignificant.

He cast a spell over the man in the audience; the man's eyes were transfixed, his mind was sent thrashing out into nothing, his body was electrified. He screamed and jumped with the rest of them, totally abandoning himself to the music but something....something was different. He felt the younger man staring at him even as he looked away. Quite possibly he had been recognized. They were both Londoners, and the odds were fair that the singer had seen, or at least, heard of one of his films. It was entirely probable.

But there was something more. He realized it in himself almost immediately. When the four band members were huddled close around one microphone, eyes delicately closed, he found himself staring at the man with the guitar. By this time, the young singer was drenched in sweat, obviously exhausted, and he'd hung onto that microphone like it was the last thing keeping him awake; his lips had kissed the metal and his mumbles had come out over the crowd like an all-encompassing whisper of pleasure.

Wiping his palms on the legs of his jeans, Benedict approached the door and knocked, his boney knuckles rapping a terribly loud tattoo on the dented and scratched metal.

"Yeah?" A voice startled him, muffled and far away beyond the door. He cleared his throat. "Um, yes, um, I was just wondering if it was alright if I come in? A man went in there a little bit ago to ask if it were okay?" Everything sounded like a question and his voice sounded so small, and yes, he was sweating much more than the heat of the day demanded.

He stepped back as the door opened, swallowing hard and cursing his nerves. He blinked.

It was the young man, the singer, the one who'd entranced him so suddenly and completely. Mumford, Marcus Mumford; that was his name. He was still drenched in sweat, soaked in it like he'd been swimming, though his feet were bare, the waistcoat was gone, and the first three buttons of his shirt had been undone. Benedict felt his mouth go dry, felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, and he couldn't speak.

"Hello. Are you coming in, then?" Marcus frowned, perhaps impatiently, and pulled the door open wider to allow him access.

Flustered, Benedict found his voice again and profusely apologized. "Sorry, yes, hello, yes, thank you. I'm Benedict Cumberbatch, perhaps, um, yes, it's so good to meet you." He held out his hand, and could actually see it trembling, the fingers twitching like he was playing an invisible piano. Marcus saw, and a smile slipped onto his face. He took Benedict's hand and shook it firmly. "Great to meet ya, man, c'mon in."

He followed him down a long hallway, keeping his eyes on the floor and silently urging himself to stop being so ridiculous. He didn't know why this young man in particular had him acting like such an idiot, why his heart was beating so fast, why he felt tenseness in his thighs and in his stomach; he knew what this meant and was unable and unwilling to believe it.

Back over his shoulder, Marcus asked, "So did you like the show, mate?"

Benedict cleared his throat and nodded, a little too enthusiastically. "Oh yes, very much, yes! It was fantastic! Amazing, really amazing." This brought another grin to Marcus' face, and he stopped briefly to put a comradely hand on his shoulder. "Cheers! Thanks very much!" When his hand dropped away again, heat flooded Ben's face, and the smallest, desperate whine escaped him. This was mad! Absolutely mad.

He was tired, stressed, and still on a high from the show. That's all this was. For years he'd dodged questions and proddings about his love life, about when he planned to settle down and start that family he'd always talked about. He knew plenty of beautiful women he liked well enough, and this stupid little-whatever it was-was not going to change anything. This wasn't anything. He had enjoyed the show and had been thrilled by the music, and that was that.

They came shortly to a room that must've been directly beneath the stage-immediately upon entering Benedict could hear footsteps muffled by layers of wood, and heavy objects being dragged and lifted.

Various instruments were already nestled in their cases, at least half a dozen guitars, a banjo, and a slightly battered drum set. The upright bass lay on its back in the corner. The floor of this place was wooden, old-looking and very worn; unfinished. The only furniture in the entire room was a sad-looking side table and a sagging couch upholstered in a shade of orange that reminded Benedict of cat sick.

Marcus followed his guest's critical gaze around the room and shrugged. "It's certainly not the best we've had, but seein' as we do most everything in the bus, it's not a problem. You alright here?"

Without waiting for an answer he helped himself to a beer from the case on the table. He cracked off the top and offered one to Benedict, who took it gratefully.

"Go ahead and sit down, if you want. The boys might be down later, otherwise it could just be us." Marcus tossed every word at him in an off-handed way, as if everything he said were a side note to what might be going on in his head-which it probably was. It mightn't have bothered him if he were equally as calm. But now that they were here and alone, Benedict felt his lower belly clench, all-too-familiarly, as he watched the younger man wander about the room.

This was mad. This was impossible. This was insane. He knew next to nothing about Marcus Mumford or the other three, but he was fairly certain that if he dared to express his desires, on this one or any of the others, it would be found out and he would be ruined.

It wasn't as if he had done, or felt anything like this before-at least not for a man. He'd bedded a few women and desired a great deal more, and that was fine, that was normal.

There was a rack of clothing near the doorway, filled with row upon row of shirts and trousers and other assorted articles; a bright yellow trucker's hat caught his eye, hanging off one corner. Marcus stood next to the rack and began unbuttoning his shirt. Benedict felt his stomach clench tighter, and was only slightly relieved when it was discovered Marcus wore what Americans called a wife-beater underneath. The undershirt was absolutely drenched in sweat, and clung to his back and chest, almost translucent.

As Benedict watched, the musician pulled the wife-beater over his head and let it fall to the floor. He plucked a towel from the shelf, humming an incomprehensible tune to himself and totally unaware of the actor's growing interest.

Marcus rubbed away the sweat from his face, neck, belly and back, still humming, while Benedict watched, his mouth dry, his fingers dancing on the arms on the couch. He crossed his long legs, uncrossed them, and then crossed them again.

Marcus rooted around a bit in the rack before finding a clean undershirt. Then once again fully dressed, a fresh towel draped around his neck, he sat down beside Benedict on the couch.

"Right, sorry about that, I figured you didn't want a fat smelly bloke sittin' so close to you. Winnie's the only one who bothers much with the laundry."

Benedict waved his apologies away. But his smile died quickly on his face, and his eyes became fixed on Marcus'.

He could see a reflection of himself in the cool grey mirrors of Marcus' extraordinary eyes. He realized what he was about to do, and there were a million alarm bells going off in his head.

He reached out , ever so slowly, and wrapped one wiry hand over the back of Marcus' broad neck. Registering the alarm in the musician's eyes, where once he'd spied only his own reflection, Benedict pulled Marcus towards him until the two men's foreheads were touching.

Marcus's brow pulled together in an expression of confusion. "Wha-what're you doin' there, mate?" He swallowed hard; Benedict could feel the muscles in his neck bulge and contract under his firm hand. "I mean, what, uh-"

"Shut up." Benedict only whispered the words, but his tone was as fierce and commanding as his intention. He placed his other hand, his right, at the young man's waist, and slipped two fingers underneath the fresh undershirt, relishing with a small smile the goosebumps he felt crop up on the young man's pale flesh.

He drew back, his cerulean eyes holding Marcus in a vise grip. Without breaking his gaze, with one fluid motion as if in a dance, he slunk down off of the couch and knelt in front of Marcus' knees.

The hand at Marcus' waist slid from under his shirt and traced the shape of his thigh; Ben could feel how tense those muscles were, how vehemently still he was being resisted. He slid his hand inwards, delighted by the gasp of surprise which exited Marcus' mouth. His fingers danced on denim, tapping out melodies on the guitar player's inner thigh, and he caressed the spot just under where the extra bit of cloth hid the zipper, moving in slow circles.

"L-look, uhm, I'm not gay, a-alright? This isn't-what're you doing?" Marcus sounded less adamant than he was supposed to, surely, and his eyes flickered to Benedict's other hand, on his knee.

Ben lifted this hand and pressed it to Marcus' stomach, just above his belt. "Hush." The hand on Marcus' thigh climbed shamelessly upwards; the index finger crooked and snaked under that extra bit of cloth; it felt the cool of the zipper and, just beneath, stirrings.

A tiny smile tickled the corner of Benedict's mouth. A low purr bubbled up from his throat, and slowly, almost tenderly, he leaned his head in between Marcus' knees and kissed metal teeth, kissed the tiny copper button; with nimble fingers he pulled the belt buckle from its notch.

While his hands were busy he raised his head and studied Marcus' face. The boy-he was only eleven years Benedict's junior but still he still thought of him as a boy-the boy had his eyes fixed above him, and the pretty grey pupils looked almost translucent in the light. His mouth hung slightly open; though his hands were pressed flat on either side of him, it looked almost like he was in the middle of prayer, or some kind of elucidation to God.

Benedict rose from his knees swiftly and covered Marcus' open mouth with his own before the younger man could raise a single word of protest. He pressed his lips against Marcus' and let his tongue explore; he heard the singer grunt in objection to his force, to this sensation he'd almost certainly never experienced before. Two strong, callused hands came up and gripped Benedict's bony shoulders, pushed at him, almost successfully pushing him off.

He broke the kiss and Marcus was gasping; he was very strong and was fighting valiantly to push Benedict off of him.

Backing off just a little, now sitting with his knees on either side of the singer's hips, his arse just about in Marcus' lap, Benedict flicked the button of the younger man's jeans free from its loop and slipped a hand inside his pants. The boy's eyes brightened, and his cheeks flushed.

Benedict's hand found what it was looking for immediately, and his pale heart-shaped mouth puckered into an O-shape of delight, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "Oh my, my, you are a big boy, aren't you?"

There was no denying it now; Marcus was practically panting, and he was steadily growing harder in Benedict's hand. The actor lowered himself to his knees again, retreating back to the floor and taking enormous pleasure in the way Marcus was slumped on the couch, his muscles still tight with resistance but slowly coming undone.

At that point, Benedict looked at him directly and raised his eyebrow, in question. Marcus stared back, cleared his throat as if to say something, but then only nodded, his lower lip caught in his teeth.

Zipper down. Benedict's palm was still pressed to the front of Marcus' boxers, and with their eyes still locked he pushed down harder and rubbed a bit, up and down. The boy's pretty mouth dropped open again and a low moan escaped him; his hips rose slightly to the touch. With one skilled hand Benedict pulled his jeans down off of his hips, then rocked back on his heels, head cocked to one side.

Marcus moaned again, quietly, hardly aware he had done it. Benedict's hands had left him; he was a few feet away and the singer's face flushed as he realized Benedict's eyes were fixed on his boxers. The actor swallowed hard as his eyes roamed from the waistband, to the strained and stretched fabric in the middle, to the cotton that clung to the defined muscles of Marcus' upper thighs.

The guitarist rocked his hips upward off the couch, his fingers curled around the waistband of his boxers, and as he pulled them off, he watched Benedict's face.

The actor who had seemed so flustered when they'd initially met was no longer nervous; that much was certain from the way his jaw set, the way his tongue peeked out from between his lips and tickled the corner of his mouth. Dropping his eyes, Marcus saw how greatly Benedict was aroused just by the sight of him. Those eyes, a million shades of blue and green and gold, had gone a shade of blue as dark as the ocean floor.

The two men met each other's eyes again, and Benedict very slowly reached out his hand and placed it on top of Marcus' right hand, which he'd pressed flat again to the couch.

Very tenderly, Benedict wrapped his fingers around the base of Marcus' cock. The singer felt a rush that he hadn't expected; his head fell back against the couch as Benedict's thin fingers began to stroke up his erection. "B- I..." Marcus started, cold shivers of pleasure wracking his body; all other words turned into an involuntary moan. Benedict's eyes were dark and hungry as he watched the pleasure spill over the younger man's face; one errant lock of red hair had fallen in front of his eyes, and he didn't bother to flick it away.

Marcus' eyes were closed, his mouth open, his chest heaving. New sweat beaded on his forehead. Without a second of pretense, Benedict took Marcus' cock fully into his mouth.

"Fuuuck...." The warm wetness of Benedict's mouth over him caused Marcus to cry out, and his eyes flew open. "Oh- oh God-Christ!" Both of his hands left the couch and tangled themselves in Benedict's hair, pulling at the curls and pushing the actor's head deeper into his lap. He could feel the other man's tongue run up and down the length of his cock, and dart over the head, and his fingers pulled and twisted at Benedict's fiery hair, drawing little groans of protest from the man; these groans sent such powerful ribbons of vibration through Marcus' flesh that it was almost already too much.

Benedict pulled his head back and sucked lightly on the head of Marcus' cock, curling his tongue around it and pulling in so tightly his chiseled cheekbones were even more greatly defined in the unforgiving light of the fluorescents. He was moaning steadily now, each exhale more guttural than the last, sending rumbles of sound through his lips and electrifying every inch of Marcus' body. One glorious hand- pale as death yet nimble, graceful, and fingers of a man who given the chance could dominate a piano- one hand caressed Marcus' inner thigh, running those musical fingers over the younger man's trembling body, his heart-shaped mouth pushed into a wide 'O'.

Marcus was hardly aware of anything else. Sweat ran down his face and he was pulling tightly on Benedict's hair, unable to make any sound but a hiss of "Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" through his teeth. His body rocked with each slow, wet stroke of Benedict's mouth as the older man took all of him, took him gladly. He was very near the edge and he didn't care who heard him; with the rhythm of his hips, the rhythm of Benedict's head under his hands, he was panting, almost growling.

Benedict pulled back almost all the way and looked up at Marcus. His eyes were hooded and so blue they were almost black. His mouth had been stretched nearly to its limit, and his top lip already looked red and swollen. Keeping his eyes set on Marcus', gasping for air around his painfully aroused, trembling cock, he brought his head forward slowly, gently, centimeters at a time. He took enormous pleasure in seeing Marcus' face contort into a growing expression of ecstasy; the younger man's eyes grew wider and wider as he took more and more of him into his mouth.

When the tip of his nose tickled Marcus' lower belly, Benedict sucked in his cheeks and tightened his lips around the singer's cock.

This was all Marcus needed. He came with a loud scream. At the same time his hands, still tangled in Benedict's wiry copper curls, yanked at the man's hair so hard that Benedict was pulled away violently, screaming himself at the mixed pain and pleasure. The two men separated wetly; Marcus fell back almost horizontal on the couch, drenched in sweat, chest and belly heaving.

Benedict lay for a moment outstretched on the floor, his lithe body wracked with the effort of breathing, his pink little mouth streaked and smeared with Marcus' cum.

He got up finally, aided by the arm of the couch, and leaned over Marcus, who hadn't moved.

His hair was wild, curls sticking out all over his head like licks of fire, and his face was flushed red. Licking a bit of the cum from his mouth, he leaned in further to Marcus and kissed him, deeply.

All the singer could muster was an exhausted moan, and when his mouth opened to Benedict's, he could taste himself there.

Benedict righted himself again and ran a hand through his hair, and grinned, not a little cheekily. "A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Mumford," he said lowly, his voice barely discernible to Marcus in the screaming silence.

He winked, and licked the last of Marcus from around his mouth. Then, adjusting his jacket, he turned on his heels and walked masterfully out of the room, bidding a good day to the security guard waiting just outside the door.


End file.
